Sins of the Father
by palmtreedragons
Summary: They didn't think that the crazy, mental scientist could actually pull a rip in time. They didn't think they would land in Gotham—thirty years in the past. And they certainly didn't think they would run into their ten-year-old dad. GothamxBatman AU
1. Chapter 1

**Hey guys! First of all, how has no one written a Gotham/Batman crossover yet? I find that kind of hard to believe, so I went and wrote one myself! Anyways, here you go.**

 **Disclaimer: Sadly, no, I don't own Batman or any spinoff a including Gotham.**

 **~palmtreedragons**

* * *

Dick was angry because Damian was a stubborn jerk and Jason was an ass. That said, he was also very, very confused.

It started like any other day in Gotham: Dick was in town, and Bruce had his hands full. Instead of enjoying a relaxing day at the Manor like planned, the acrobat willingly stepped in to lend a hand. Donning the Nightwing suit, Dick took off to downtown Gotham, where the streets were filled with trash and trashy people alike.

A scientist at the Gotham Labroatory snapped when the city cut its funding of his project, or so Dick was told. The briefing was, well, _brief_ , and Bruce was trying to track Harley Quinn before she did something stupid like blow up a hospital. It wasn't hard to catch the devolving lunatic; he was strutting down the street, gun swinging and a wild look in his eyes. People screamed once they saw the weapon and took off for cover. Saying he "snapped" was a understatement—he was full on mental. No doubt his next stop would be Arkham.

"Sir," Dick said in a calming voice as he dropped from the rooftops to the streets. He held a hand out placatingly. "Put the gun down, and we can talk."

The man swung around to face his confronter. The middle-aged scientist's glasses were askew, his hair was unkept and untidy, and his clothes were a rumpled mess. The look in his eyes told Nightwing that this man would only be stopped with a bullet. Dick Grayson didn't accept that.

"They stopped funding!" cried the man wildly, pointing the gun accusingly at Dick's chest. He held it like someone who's never held a gun before, and never dreamed of it until the past day or so: hands shaky, eyes flickering between it and its possible target, pale and sweaty face. "It's all gone! All my notes—all my work. _Years_ of my life down the drain!"

 _Reason with him. Get on his level. Sympathize._ "That must be hard for you, seeing all your work gone to waste—"

A maniacal laugh suddenly bubbled out from deep within the man's chest. "For waste? No, I got what I needed. They'll just be sorry they ever crossed me!"

 _Not good_. "Sir, I—"

The scientist suddenly reeled backwards, clutching his shoulder. The white business suit was staining with crimson as the man darted into an alleyway. Dick's eyes scanned the rooftops for the sniper. He didn't have to look long.

A figure leapt out of the fourth story window, eyes surveying for the injured maniac. Squaring his shoulders, Dick angrily strode over to the man. "You didn't have to shoot."

"You didn't have to talk," Jason shot back, his voice muffled through this signature red helmet. "Shooting's always easier."

"Easy isn't always right," Dick growled. Jason was his brother, but he was abrasive at best. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

If Dick could see under the red hood, he was sure Jason was rolling his eyes. "You think you're special, Dickie? Bruce called whoever was available to do the job. And if you don't mind, I wanna finish it." Dick watched his brother storm past. Part of him was shocked Bruce would call Jason, but if a lunatic was left roaming Gotham, things would be worse than Jason on duty. He grabbed the weapon-clad man by the shoulder.

"Don't shoot him, please."

Jason sighed. "Fine. Sheesh. I was aiming for his arm, anyway."

As if things couldn't get worse, a gun shot rang out from the alley the man disappeared into. The duo took off, and quickly skidded to a halt when they saw what was before them. The man hadn't shot himself, which was a relief, but was instead shooting at the Red Robin.

"Great," Jason muttered darkly under his breath, unholstering his handgun. "We're getting the whole group together. One big happy reunion."

Within seconds, Tim had the man's gun skidding across the stone pavement, and the man was flung into the wall. He slumped to the ground, unconscious. Wiping his hands confidently, Tim turned to face his brothers. "Took you long enough."

"Show off," Dick murmured fondly. "Look's like we're all in town."

"Not all of us," came a voice with enough anger to rival Jaso Todd. The three didn't even need to turn to know who the voice belonged to. "You always get all the fun."

Dick gave a carefree laugh. "Aren't you suppose to be grounded, Damian?"

The youngest shrugged. "Aren't you suppose to be in Blüdhaven? And what's _he_ doing here?" According to Damian, Jason didn't even deserve to be spoken of. Jason's snarky remark was cut short when a scuttling sound came from behind the group. The four turned and eyed up the bleeding, weary scientist. He had a small, handheld device in his hand—no doubt what his project was. And he just pressed the big fat red button on top. Mesmerized, the Robins watched as the device glowed. The slow light began to fade, then return to its eerie brightness. Before Dick could even blink, the man hurled the device at the four. It exploded mid-air, and the world dissolved into white light.

* * *

Dick was angry because Damian was a stubborn jerk and Jason was an ass. That said, he was also very, very confused.

His head pounded as he lifted it from the cold ground. He blearily eyed the scientist, who now looked most definitely dead; he likely bled out. But that would take time. . . . How long were they out? A quick glance showed Dick his three brothers, each stirring in their unwanted sleep.

Most alarmingly: it was dark. They'd likely been here hours. Bruce would have a fit when they got back. Dick looked upwards, through the narrow alley, to the establishment across the street. It was—blue? He could've sworn it was painted a dark green. And it was definitely _not_ a laundromat. The alley didn't give much view to the outside world, but something deep down told Dick that this wasn't Gotham. At least, not theirs.

And that was when the ringing in Dick's ears faded, and he realized there was a figure kneeling besides him. It took a moment to see him in the darkness; Dick took in the pale skin, dark hair, and black, tailored coat. The kid couldn't have been older than twelve, if that.

"What?" Dick asked, rather stupidly. The ringing from _whatever the hell that thing had been_ was making it hard to hear.

"I asked what happened," the boy stated calmly. Dick blinked. The calmness and control in such a young person's eyes unnerved him.

"I would tell you if I had any clue." Dick tried to raise himself from the ground, and managed to prop himself on his elbows. He caught the stranger eyeing his crime-fighting suit and supposed it looked a bit odd. How to explain this? He had absolutely no idea.

"I, uh, gotta get home."

The boy nodded quickly. "Of course. And your friends?"

"My brothers," Dick corrected quietly. Jason moaned, a hand moving to clutch his forehead.

"You're hurt. Gotham General isn't too far away." Dick turned back to the concerned boy. He appreciated the concern, but a gut feeling said they shouldn't be out in public—especially in uniform. Besides, they'd faced much worse than this and survived.

"No," he stated firmly. Then, much calmer, "No hospitals."

A knowing look suddenly came into the boy's eyes. "You work outside the law. Like a vigilante of sorts?"

Dick laughed, more to himself than out loud. They didn't call Bruce "The Caped Crusader" for nothing.

"Yeah, you could say that. You're a pretty smart kid."

This made the corner of the kid's mouth flick upwards ever so briefly. The he was back to business: "Your name?"

Dick bit his tongue. It was a simple, innocent question. But it was one he didn't feel like sharing to some random kid, no matter how nice or how _damn familiar_ he looked. Dick slowly shook his head. "Doesn't matter."

Another understanding nod. Then, the boy extended a hand. He had an air of formality as he did this gesture, as if trained. Probably some Gotham aristocrat. "If you were wondering, my name is Bruce. Bruce—"

"Wayne?" Dick's breath hitched. It was less than impossible. It was damn near crazy. Bruce was a grown man, his _father_. And yet here he was, staring into young but familiar eyes, and it somehow made sense. Dick did know an alien that could fly and shoot lasers out of his eyes. Sometimes crazy was more explainable than reality. "What the hell was that nut-job scientist working on?"


	2. Chapter 2

Dick couldn't help but stare. Sure, he'd seen photos, even a few videos, of the young Bruce Wayne. But in person? Well, he always imagined his father was . . . taller.

"So you refuse to tell me your names, and you refuse to state your business here," Bruce unnecessarily recapped. He was curiously observing the group; the three youngest Robins had fully awakened, but were smart enough to keep their mouths shut. They had enough lectures from Barry about screwing with time. Hell—just _being_ here could change everything. One wrong move, and Bruce could not become the Batman. One wrong move, and hundreds—if not _millions_ —of people could die. One wrong move, and they wouldn't know Bruce Wayne at all.

"Look, kid, I know it's not a lot to go on." Dick took a deep breath. He hoped Bruce wasn't as stubborn as his adult self. "You can walk away. Just—"

Bruce crossed his arms and donned that stubborn look he held decades later. "Don't call me that."

"What?"

"I'm not a child. Don't call me 'Kid.'"

Jason, for the first time since their time jump, chose that exact moment to open his big fat mouth. "Well, you are one, aren't you?"

"Isn't _he_?" Bruce questioned, eyes narrowing on Damian. The boy he had no clue was his son. The current Robin grimaced behind his mask with annoyance. Dick glanced between the two and felt the breath being knocked out of him; Alfred always said Damian looked like Bruce at that age. Standing yards apart and the same age, they could've passed as twins. Only one was furious and hot-headed, the other a constant calm.

Dick shook himself, literally as well as physically. His left leg was sore from hitting the ground, and he lightly tested it. Their best bet at remaining unseen was going by rooftop. His leg had to be able to hold up the strain of jumping across the clearings between ledges. Giving his brothers a once-over, he saw they were in no better shape. Something—shrapnel, broken glass perhaps—had cut through Jason's gloved hand and straight through to his palm, which was bleeding quite steadily, no matter how much pressure he put on the wound. Tim was favoring his left side and, upon closer inspection, Damian's cringe seemed more from pain than anger. Most likely a concussion.

Short to say, they were in no shape to keep themselves on the run for— For how long? What happened next? Where would they go? They frickin' jumped through time because of some—

Some unhinged scientist. If they could find that guy, whoever he was. . . . It was a long shot, but it was their best option.

Bruce, his tiny stature and crossed arms and defiant glare, remained planted between the four boys and the only way out of the dead-end alleyway, unless they went up. "I suppose we can make a deal."

Tim beat Dick to the million-dollar question. "What deal?" he spluttered.

 _Damn,_ Dick thought upon seeing Bruce's reaction _. He's even got that "I know something and you don't, aren't I smart?" look_. "We both need something from the other. Perhaps a trade in professions?"

"Cut to the chase," Jason growled.

 _Oh, look. He's got that "Jason, stop being ignorant" look, too_. "You need a safe place from the police, and I need help on . . . something very dear to me. There's plenty of room at my home, and it's the least suspecting place in Gotham."

Bruce extended another formal hand, this time to shake for a deal, not a greeting. A hand shake that was for something impossible. They couldn't go with Bruce. If he knew who they were—who he was in their time—their names— _anything_ —their future could be catastrophic. But, getting caught by the police? Trying to explain this to the suits?

Bruce noticed Dick's hesitance, then added, "Most likely the GCPD will be here soon. You did create quite a show, whatever you did."

Damn. With a growl, Dick took his young father's hand and shook. _If Bruce were here now, he would probably slap me._

* * *

Within minutes of Bruce's phonecall— _Was that really what phones looked like when Bruce was a kid? Wow._ —a sleek limousine pulled up to the curb. Their time spent before the car's arrival was nothing more than silence. Awkward silence, yes, but silence nonetheless.

Bruce immediately headed to the car when it appeared. Dick spun to his brothers, making the most of their first time alone. "No one say anything," he hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. Jason and Damian pouted at the fact that Nightwing was now calling the shots, but they couldn't argue with his order. It was easier to explain nothing than explain a big mess of half-lies. Silence would become their best friend.

There was only one person in mind when Dick thought of who could hop out of the car and come to Bruce's side, but it still came as a shock to see the butler. He was mostly the same, maybe a few less wrinkles and a bit more gray in his hair than white.

"Master Bruce!" Alfred cried. His voice was the perfect mix of relief, concern, and exasperation. "What've I told you about being on these streets alone? And—and who the bloody hell are _they_?"

Bruce's face remained stoic as he calmly replied, "I'll explain everything later, Alfred. These people are my guests, and we need to head home immediately." Alfred's eyes traveled back and forth between his young master and the four crime fighters. Jason still donned his mask, Damian had a cape, Tim practically had wings, and they were all wearing spandex. It was understandable, the look they recieved from Alfred. The man sighed finally, muttering as he walked back to the driver's side of the limo.

Bruce closed the gap between himself and the car. He turned as he opened the backseat door, looking at the four strangers who made no move to join. "Aren't you coming?"

* * *

The entire ride to the manor? Silence.

The boys could feel Bruce's eyes and Alfred's ears trained on them, but they made no move speak. In fact, each of them found it easier to stare out the window.

"So," Alfred began non-subtly. His words sounded like gunshots piercing the silence. "Eh, what rings you all to Gotham?"

"Business," Dick answered curtly before any of his brothers had the chance to. Bruce's eyed remained fixed on Dick. Or maybe it was the mask that drew his attention. Dick watched Bruce in his peripheral vision as he pretended to stare at some trees. Eventually the eyes of the young boy moved to the next masked crusader.

"You're hurt." Bruce's voice caught everyone's attention. Alfred glanced back in the rear view mirror. The statement was directed to Jason, who was trying his best to keep the blood flow stemmed, one hand clenched tightly in the other. A few drops of blood fell onto the carpet. _Well, at least it's black_.

"'S nuthin'." Jason muttered from under his hood. Dick realized with a twinge of panic that if they didn't patch the injury up soon, Jason would lose too much blood. He couldn't tell for sure, but he imagined Jason's pale, clamy face as he fought the pain. The rest of the ride Dick watched Jason carefully, unsure whether he was staring out the widow or passed out.

"I trust you are men of your word." Dick was caught once more by Bruce's formality, and he turned to face his father. _I'm not a child_. He sure wasn't. "So I hope you'll hold up your end of the bargain."

"Once my brothers are taken care of," Dick said calmly. From the window, Dick glanced out and saw his— _their_ —home. Wayne Manor was similar in certain aspects to the one they knew. It had certain features that caught Dick off guard, features changed by time. The bricks' color wasn't as faded; some of the structure was different (most likely they were remodeled as years of Batman's crime fighting brought the fight close to home); some of the trees Alfred had planted were not there. Now that they had arrived, here came the tricky part. Maybe Bruce wanted them to stop a drug lord, or catch some common street thug. Something easy. "What do you want us to do?"

The certainty in Bruce's eyes never wavered as they locked onto Dick's. "I want you to catch my parents' killer."

* * *

 **DUN DUN DUUUNN!**

 **A/N #1: Thanks so much you guys! I love the feedback I've been getting! (I'm still a little dumbfounded no one's written a Gotham/Batman crossover, and I'm proud to be the first!) I have big plans for this story, so stay tuned!**

 **A/N #2: I have quite some knowledge of Batman and its characters and stories, but everyone makes mistakes. Tell me if I made an error, a character's too OOC, if you have any suggestions, etc. _Constructive criticism is very much appreciated!_**

 **A/N #3: There will be TONS of Gotham characters later on. Fish Mooney, Penguin, Ed just to name a few. Let me know if there's any others you want me to include! You might be seeing Jim and Harvey next chapter. . . .**

 **See ya next Saturday! Stay awesome!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	3. Chapter 3

"We can't do it," Tim hissed under his breath.

Damian rolled his eyes. "Of course we can't, Drake." Dick sighed. They had been ushered into a study—Bruce's study, thirty years from now—as Alfred ran off to get some medical supplies. The butler demanded his master come with, for a "brief talk." Every one of the boys knew that the talk wasn't so brief, as they had often been on the recieving end.

"Then what do we do?" Jason ground out through gritted teeth. His helmet was now off to help him breath better, and his hair was plastered to his forhead with sweat. Dick was sitting attentively by his side, in case something went wrong.

" _Tt_. Must I spell it out for you?" Damian growled. "We only make him _think_ we are helping him."

Tim nodded, catching onto the plan. "He's asking us to do the impossible. Bruce still hasn't found out his parents killer. Maybe we could, with the evidence as fresh as it is, but that doesn't mean we have to, right?"

Dick frowned. "I—I know we shouldn't, but . . . aren't you guys wondering? Who killed Bruce's parents?" A silence fell across the room.

Damian frowned, most level-headed of them all. "We can't."

"Can't what?" asked a young voice from the door. The boys turned, immediately silent. Bruce made his way into the room, a tray of assorted supplies in his hands. "You always get quiet when Alfred and I are around," he observed, sitting on the other side of Jason. He looked up at the now unmasked vigilante, studying his face. Jason quickly turned his head.

"No offense," Dick stated, "but you're strangers." _Lie of the year._

This earned a bitter laugh from the young billionaire. He picked up a needle, and began to sanitize it. The Robins marveled at the sight; Was Bruce doing the whole crime-fighting shtick at this age?

The older voice now entering the room answered the unspoken question. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doin'?"

Bruce merely glanced up at his guardian, hands steady and needle ready. "Stitches."

"Stitches?" spluttered Alfred, before pointing a finger at Jason. "If I were you, I would pull that hand away!" Then, back to Bruce: "When have you _ever_ done stitches?"

Bruce shrugged innocently. "They seem fairly simple." Alfred stalked up to his young master, carefully snatching the needle away and muttering under his breath. Dick and Tim tried to hide their laughter, and Damian looked on in proud approval. Alfred took the spot beside Jason, and began cleaning the wound.

"What are you lot doing here?"

"In Gotham?" Tim asked.

" _In our study!"_ A small hiss as the needle punctured Jason's skin.

"We . . . we need to find this man. He can get us home."

"And where is home?" asked Bruce. He was genuinely curious, and equally concerned. Even at this age, Bruce was still a better man then most.

Dick bit his lip. He glanced to Tim: a small nod. Damian: an indifferent shrug. Jason: a glared at the needle. Alfred was clearly not as skilled as he was in their time. "This . . . is going to sound a bit crazy."

Bruce looked intrigued, leaning forward in the chair he took. "Go on."

"I mean— _really_ crazy. Like, 'You belong in Arkham!' crazy."

Alfred groaned. "There's been a teenage sociopath who deranged half the city, a penguin running the Gotham streets, and a man who killed via balloons! You can't get much crazier in Gotham."

Dick thought to himself: The Joker, Penguin, and . . . Balloon Guy?

"Time travel," Jason blurted out. Dick glared at him, as if to say _I was getting to the point_. Jason shrugged, as if to say _You were rambling._

Alfred raised his eyes. Bruce remained blank-faced. Dick always hated that; Bruce never let emotions show. You could never tell what he was thinking.

"Time travel?" Alfred said with a disbelieving laugh. "Do you _really_ expect us to believe that?"

"Twenty years?"

Dick turned to Bruce. "What?"

"I am guessing. Did you come twenty years from now?"

Dick blinked in shock. _He believed me?_ "Uh—yeah. Well, thirty years, actually. But, yeah, we did."

Alfred was looking on, slack-jawed and mid-wrap with the gauze and Jason's hand. "Do you really—?"

"Yes, Alfred, I do." Calm eyes turned from the young man in black and blue leotard to elderly butler.

"Why?" breathed Tim.

"Because, Alfred, it makes sense. Their concealed identities, their secretiveness. Besides, why else would someone say something so crazy?" Alfred crossly went back to wrapping Jason's hand. Dick and Tim were mulling over the philosophicalness of Bruce Wayne. They figured that trait developed later. Damian continued to stare at his father like a hawk, memorizing and comparing every move and word like some sort of computer. Bruce was the one who broke the tense silence. "So you need to find the man who sent you back?"

Dick nodded. "Yeah. Only, we don't know if he's even thought of this time-travel thing."

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "I can call Detective Gordon. He can find him, surely."

"Detective?" Jason echoed thoughtfully to himself, flexing his newly bandaged hand.

"I have one more question," Bruce declared, rising from his seat. He was most likely off to get _Detective_ Gordon. "I know I'm not suppose to ask about the future; I've seen enough movies."

Dick chuckled into his hand. Bruce was, surprisingly, a very big movie buff. "Yeah, sure. Ask."

"In the future . . . do I know you?"

Dick froze. Bruce couldn't know. Telling him that they were from the future was going to have consequences. Telling him they were his _sons_? No. Definitely not. All Dick could think of was a nonstop litany of: _Yes, you do know us. I'm your son. We all are. You adopted us, you put a roof over our heads. You and Alfred are our family. Our_ only _family. You're our dad._

But instead, Dick forced out the hardest lie he's had to say yet. "No. You don't know who I am."

* * *

 **So, there goes chapter three! What'd you think?**

 **A/N #1: I've had a comment about Steph, Barbara, and Cassandra. I don't know much about them, so I don't think they'll be in this story as much as the boys, but there will be references.**

 **A/N #2: As always, suggestions and comments are greatly appreciated! I love to ear what people thin should happen; it gives me a fresh look at the storyline and where it could go. Thanks for all the support you guys!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	4. Chapter 4

It was like the time Wally ran head-first into Dick at high speed.

Jason was bandaged, and Alfred went off to fix some supper, still cross at the new visitors and Bruce's unquestioning acceptance. The four brothers sat in silence, either staring at how similar yet different Bruce's study was, or lost in thought. Here, now, this was the study of Bruce's father. The man Bruce talked so little about. Occasionally Bruce would tell a story about him; he seemed like a nice man. Bruce never spoke about his mother. Dick figured that was always too much.

Bruce—young Bruce, the one here and now—stumbled through the doorway, an armful of clothes visible. He dropped them on the table, and the future travelers eyed them questioningly. Most seemed to be his father's clothes: button-up shirts and slacks too large for someone Bruce's size. At least one pair seemed the be Bruce's, though.

"I figured you could use a change of clothes," Bruce explained, as if it made total sense. "With your . . . current apparel, it might draw some attention. Besides, they look filthy." This was directed to Jason's blood soaked leather jacket and Damian's mud-caked boots. But all Dick could think about, staring at the pile of clothes, was reeling pain. All he could feel was the blinding white pain of when Wally turned the corner going what felt like Mach five and rammed into Dick. That was years ago, but the stunning feeling was so similar.

It was strange, how a simple pile of clothes could make Dick realize. This could be permanent. This was _real_. Dick's mind had had his priorities straight: protect his brothers, find this man, get home. But what if the stranger couldn't get them home? What if it took years? What if it never happened? Suddenly, Dick's mind went into overdrive, wondering if their existence here—be it days or months or forever—would change everything.

The eldest Robin was suddenly aware that their host was speaking. He was grateful at least Tim and Damian were listening. Jason was fiddling with his bandages. He caught a few words—something relating to Gordon and tomorrow morning. Dick's eye wandered to one of the study's large windows. It was beginning to grow dark. Had it already been a day since their arrival? An entire day in the past?

Alfred entered with a plate of sandwiches. (Dick found it ironic. The one thing he would always ask Alfred to make were his sandwiches.) Bruce left them, explaining that Alfred and he had already set a room for the boys down the hall. Then they were alone. They could talk freely, but what was there to say? Only questions or half-meant reassurances or worries came to mind. And his brothers were too smart to be fooled by whatever idea or hope Dick could try and make up. He was even fooling himself with one: Maybe Bruce and Barbara and Alfred and all their crew were trying to find a way to fix this. Maybe they would be rescued.

But maybe they wouldn't.

* * *

The room only had one bed, but that really didn't matter. Dick had made it a habit, back when Jason and Timmy were Robins, to let them spend the night with him on the nights they were plagued with nightmares. This was part of the reason why they all thought of Dick as their older brother—he fit the part perfectly. Jason was always stubborn and refused to speak about whatever kept him up at night, and Tim was like talking with a brick wall, but the two boys were both silently glad that their adoptive brother was there. It was much less embarrassing than going to Bruce.

But now, dressed in one of Thomas Wayne's button-ups that was too long in the sleeves and too tight in the chest, Jason flopped into a chair set by the bed. He was too old for slumber parties. Damian crawled onto the bed, not giving a second thought that he would have to share with Dick and Tim. The boy was almost uncanny, now wearing one of younger Bruce's clothes; it looked as if Bruce himself could have been laying on the bed. Tim was practically swimming in one of Thomas' sweaters; he was too big for anything Bruce wore currently, but Thomas Wayne's clothes were at least two sizes too large. It would have to do. He fell on the bed next to Damian, his eyes closed before his head hit the pillow. Dick himself fit Bruce's deceased father's clothes the best, as if they were tailored for himself to wear.

As Dick inspected the room, a twinge of pain went through him. The room was his.

The wall, the window, the furniture—it was all wrong. But, roughly twenty years from now, this would be the room Bruce gave to the orphan he found fighting criminals on the street. Now, it was just another guest room. Biting his lip, Dick turned off the light and laid next to Damian, the opposite side than Tim. A light rain tapped at the curtain-drawn window. _It's always raining in Gotham_ , Dick thought sleepily. _It always has, and it always will_. He remembered one of the first times Bruce took him to Metropolis to help the Justice League fight crime. Dick couldn't stop staring at the clear, blue sky.

Dick stared at the ceiling for God knows how long. It felt like his head was going to implode, like his chest was being crushed, like he couldn't breath. Maybe it was side effects of time travel. It probably wasn't. For some reason, he had to whisper into the darkness, "We going to go home." It sounded like he was trying to convince himself, rather than his brothers.

Jason stirred in his chair, shifting to face his brother. Tim sighed. Damian was the only one who replied. "I know."

* * *

Dick woke early, like he always did. Years of crime fighting at night and patrols had him able to function on minimal hours of sleep. That was a trick Bruce taught him. Each of his brothers were sleeping soundly. Dick carefully unwound Damian's arms from his own—the boy was always curled up like a cat when he slept—and moved to the door. He wasn't worried about leaving his brothers; this was their home and they knew better than most anyone how to navigate it. Carefully opening the door (his door, the door that he knew how to open _just_ right without it creaking) he stepped into the hall.

A light filter of voices echoes through the hallway. Dick mused over the fact that, from here, he could tell exactly what room they were in. Padding across the carpet in bare feet and rumpled clothes, he made his way to the foyer. From the banister overlooking the entrance to Wayne Manor, Dick could see three distinct figures. Bruce and Alfred, of course, were two. The third was a man in GCPD uniform, neatly parted hair, and a calm stature. They were discussing something. Dick stayed put, watching and listening from the second floor.

Suddenly Bruce turned to Alfred, seemingly angry about something that had been brought up. "You think you know everything about me, don't you?"

"I diapered you bottom!" Alfred cried. "I bloody well ought to!" The two glared, Bruce with arms crossed and Alfred's chest out with confidence. The officer awkwardly watched on, letting his eyes drift as the conversation began to exclude him. He let his eyes drift to the second landing, where he saw Dick. The man cleared his throat, eyes locked on the new figure. The butler and his charge abandoned their quarreling, realizing their guest had been discovered. Dick began to descend the stairs, realizing he could no longer observe. Now he had to participate.

Once reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stopped just short of the policeman. It was definitely James Gordon. No mustache, no wrinkles, no hard edge. But it was definitely James Gordon. The first time Dick had heard the name was during his brief stay at the boys' home, between his role as a Flying Grayson and a Robin. Some of the more troublesome boys were complaining, saying how you didn't want to get caught by Commissioner Gordon. They said he was tough, and didn't let people off easy. That he was scary, even. So, imagine Dick's surprise the first time the Commissioner stopped by Wayne Manor to ask a favor of the billionaire, and gave Dick a warm smile and a welcoming handshake. Lots of kids were scared by the guy. Dick thought nice was an understatement when describing him.

And here he was, waiting to be introduced all over again.

"This is a family friend," Bruce spoke quickly, lying about the boy's relations. Dick smiled at Gordon, who curiously smiled back. An awkward silence fell at the moment Bruce was suppose to supply a name. Dick realized with staggering sorrow that Bruce had forgotten.

"Richard." Dick tried to keep his smile up, but it seemed impossible. He simply held a hand out to Gordon, who shook it, as warmly as he did when Dick was a boy.

"The name's James Gordon. You can call me Jim, if you want." Dick only nodded, still stung by Bruce's mistake. "Bruce was just telling me you needed to find someone?" Another nod. Jim frowned slightly. "He also said you don't have a lot to go on."

"No." That was wrong. They didn't have _anything_ to go on. They didn't know a name. They didn't know if he was working on this project. They didn't even know if he was in Gotham. They didn't know anything. Dick excused himself suddenly, rushing up the stairs, away from the three people in his life he had always depended on. The three people in his life who didn't even remember his name.

* * *

 **AHH! I just love writing the ends to chapters—and I especially loved this chapter!**

 **A/N #1: Just an FYI for those wondering, I wasn't putting this in any specific time in Gotham. Just generally season 1. Characters like Fish Mooney, Cobblepot, Nygma, Falcone and Marroni, and Selena will appear later, don't worry!**

 **A/N #2: Thanks SO MUCH for all the support! I always say this, but I really mean it! Reading your reviews are the best part of my day!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	5. Chapter 5

Gotham was a whole lot more deadly. Without Batman, or Nightwing, or even Red Hood or Red Robin, there was no one to control the scum. So the scum controlled the city. Bruce rarely spoke about these times, where the city was run by mobsters. It still was, but with the Batman on the chessboard, their moves were more reserved. Here and now, they acted without a second thought. They took whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. It was a pretty dark age, not only for Bruce, but for all of Gotham City.

After Dick had excused himself, he returned to his brothers. They were just waking. Confused by Dick's absence, all the eldest would say was that he was going out.

"That's not a good idea, Dick, and you know it." Tim logically pointed out. His hair was a mess from tossing and turning in his sleep. It was a bad idea to split up, but Dick wasn't letting his brothers loose on Gotham. Not now.

Jason stretched, popping the bones in his neck and back rather loudly. The chair wasn't meant for sleeping. "At least take me with you."

Dick moved to the window. The good part of his childhood he was leaping out that window, landing just right two stories down. It was much easier than walking all the way to the front of the manor. Sliding open the glass, Dick sat on the sill and swung his legs out. "I'm going by myself. Cover for me. Go with Bruce and Gordon to the GCPD and try and find our guy." Damian opened his mouth to protest, but was abruptly cut off. "That's an order."

Each of Dick's brothers knew he was light-hearted and childish at heart. So when his voice was hard and firm and giving orders, they knew to listen. Dick slid off the window sill.

* * *

Despite the harsh, bitter wind, people were crowded on the streets. With just his button-up, slacks, and his own shoes, Dick shivered in the wind.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Maybe he was observing just how much different Gotham was, and trying to adapt to it. Maybe he was trying to clear his head, walking through something familiar. Whatever it was, it wasn't working. He only felt alone on the streets—maybe because he was. He bit his lip as he walked past muggings, he winced when he saw something wrong. Something that wasn't suppose to be around thirty years from now. He supposed that if he weren't killed here, this not-quite-deja vu would make him go insane. He smirked, dryly imagining him spending the rest of his days as an old man in Arkham, insisting he traveled through time.

Daydreaming was always a problem for Dick. When he first took on the mantle of Robin, that was one of his only flaws. Many times on patrol he would doze off, or simply not pay attention, and something would go wrong. Bruce was always there to fix it, though. Laughing to himself at his Arkham image, he didn't hear the two burly men come from behind. He only noticed them when one slipped a bag over Dick's head, and the other landed a sharp blow to Dick's skull. _Where is Bruce now?_ Dick thought as another hit knocked his head into the concrete sidewalk, and his vision went black.

* * *

He wasn't sure how long he was out. Slowly being dragged into reality, Dick first heard the jazzy, classical music drifting in the background. Next he tried to lift a hand to his head, to assess the damage that was done. His hands and feet were immobile—he was tied to a chair. That was when Dick opened his eyes.

It was a small bar. Nicely furnished, clean, and very few people inside. A few men stared blankly and coldly at Dick, standing guard across the room. Dick turned his attention to what lie closer to him. A table was before him, white tablecloth and an empty plate. It was set for a meal. Across the table was the one other person in the room, besides the guards.

She was staring. Her eyes were laughing and pleased, her clothes, hair, and makeup nothing short of perfect. She seemed to have an air of royalty and importance, a confidence that automatically made you feel as if you were less than her. Dick scowled. "Nice place."

"Isn't it?" she questioned innocently, lifting a wine glass with her perfectly manicured nails.

"Who are you?" Dick couldn't make the sneer leave his face; his pain meshed with his disgust as he took in his surroundings.

"Who am _I_?" the woman asked, her voice drawling and sure. "My guess is you aren't from Gotham, are you, sugar?"

The name only made Dick cringe more. This was bad. "What do you want with me?"

"With you? Nothing at all." She set the glass of wine down. "You're nothing but a chess piece. I need you, to get to something I need."

"And what is that?" Dick thought Bruce would be proud of him; his voice was calm, and his face a blank slate. He acted almost uninterested, like this was merely a nuisance. It was, really.

The woman smiled widely. "Aw, sweetie." She leaned forward and lightly patted Dick's cheek. He tried not to flinch. "It's adorable you think I would tell you that." She rose eloquently, heading for the door. "I'll be back in a bit," she called over her shoulder."Just a little work to do." Dick watched as she stopped by the door. She leaned in close to the guard standing there, and Dick could just barely heard their exchange. "Get the car ready. We're headed to meet _him_."

"Right away, Miss Mooney."

* * *

 **Yay! I finally introduced Fish! (One of my favorite characters, besides Bruce.)**

 **A/N: Reviews are awesome! I love reading what you guys have to say! What do you think will happen next? What do you think Fish wa** **nts with Dick? Who's Fish meeting? Who should I introduce next? Why am I asking all these questions? Anyways, thanks guys!**

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	6. Chapter 6

Jason was never fond of Gordon. He supposed it was the dislike of cops ingrained in his mind during his early years on the streets. He wasn't the worst when it came to police. After Bruce took his second ward in, Jim Gordon occasionally turned a blind eye to the more simple shenanigans. Jason thought he was nice, but in the same way Dick was: too cheery and too goody-goody.

Tim, on the other hand, admired the commissioner in the way of idolism. He was one of the best cops—and detectives—in all of Gotham. To Tim, he was a celebrity. Jim was flattered, and once called Tim his one-man-fan club. Damian felt rather indifferent; he was unimpressed with a civilian like Gordon's skills.

When Dick disappeared after asking his brothers to trail Gordon, you could imagine what happened.

It was a long three hours, that's all Jason will say about it. Three long, _long_ hours.

And it only got longer as he stared up the sone steps at the GCPD. He'd seen this place far too many times, most of which were through struggling policemen carrying a seething and squirming child their through the large doors. Jason straightened his shoulders a bit. The cement wasn't as chipped, the paint was about fifty shades whiter, and it didn't house that feeling of corrupt. If Jason squinted, he could almost pretend he was anywhere else in the world but here.

Tim was ahead, nearly stepping on Gordon's heels as he trailed the now detective inside. It was something akin to the love of a celebrity; after time passed, and the person got older and more flawed, your love seemed to dwindle down to a liking of the person, if that. This was the complete opposite, where Tim's fanboy senses were stuck in overdrive.

Damian was still silently stalking their father. Poor Bruce had a look of pure confusion sprawled across his face when he caught Damian staring. He made sure, whether consciously or not, to stick close to his butler's side. Poor sweet, innocent Bruce.

Jason shrugged in his leather jacket, rolling his shoulders and following his messed up family inside.

Like he said before, he'd been in this building far too many times. But he'd never stopped to look at the high sculpted ceiling, or the white marble flooring, or the dark oak wooden walls. He'd been too busy worrying about jail time and social services.

But the doorway probably wasn't the best place to stop. His brothers and their guides were soon lost to him in the bustling of papers, cops, and spitting criminals. In the short time Jason stood in the doorway, he was sent flying.

He wasn't aware of the impact at first. It was only when the confusing swarm of ever moving boots and flying papers caught his sight that he realized his feet had been knocked out from under him. And the grumbling voice beside him.

It sounded apologetic, sure, but annoyed. Jason was annoyed, too, if he was frank.

He was quick to pull himself from the ground. He supposed the nice thing to do would be to help with the paperwork that was sent flying, but the thin man was already bent over the ground. Jason awkwardly watched, unsure whether or not to help; the man was almost done, so what was Jason to do?

"Watch where you stand," the voice muttered. Jason knit his eyebrows together. He'd heard that voice somewhere. God, he knew that voice—where was that voice from? Probably some hotdog vendor or something stupid, but it would drive Jason crazy not knowing the name.

Something glittering at his feet caught his attention: a pair of glasses. Jason stopped to the ground and collected them. "You watch where you're walking," he shot back.

And then he met the face. The high cheekbones, the dark hair, the ridiculing look in his eyes. The man gave a thin frown, plucking the glasses from Jason. Before the shock could wear off, the forensic scientist blended into the crowd.

Damn. That was—

"Hey, Nygma!" Jim shouted from one of the desks on the open second floor, "come over here and help me, would you?"

Jason met Tim's eyes. Sitting next to Jim at the desk, folders spread out before him, he looked just as panicked as Jason felt.

Vaguely he felt his nails digging into his palms. He could kill the Riddler, right here, and right now. Sure, he was surrounded by cops—not the best place for a murder—but imagine all the pain and suffering he could prevent.

For once in his life, Jason realized he could change the future. But was that a good thing? Just because he could, did that mean he should?

* * *

Dick sighed. He did it a bit too loudly, he guessed, because Miss Mooney stopped her swaying through the doorway. She took her good merry time turning around, until Dick was staring right at her face. It seemed calm, but he could tell underneath the surface a storm was brewing. That was a face that struck fear.

"Problem?" she asked in a voice so sweet most people would have shut their mouth on the spot.

Fortunately for Dick, this wasn't his first kidnapping. "Yeah, actually. I think you got the wrong guy."

The corner of Fish's mouth twitched upward. With a vague wave at her guards, the men left the room. A chill involuntarily ran through Dick's spine as a voice sang _You're alone with her now. No one will hear you scream if you die._ This led him to a quick existential crisis—if he died now, would that affect the future? _His_ future? Would nothing be different at all?

"Honey, everyone thinks they're the wrong guy," she drawled, taking a few confident steps towards the cocky hostage.

Dick only grinned. He almost laughed, really. He was positive he was right; he wasn't even born yet. Nobody in all of Gotham could want his head on a silver platter. At least, not yet.

"Yeah. You see, I didn't do anything. Just got into town, actually."

Fish raised an eyebrow casually, the way one might normally react to the statement (minus the whole hostage/crime lord scenario). "Is that so?" she asked innocently. "My supplier doesn't seem to think so."

"Well, you can tell your supplier to stick it up—"

Dick was cut short with a chuckle.

"You've got a lot of fight in you." The statement was short, simple, and factual. Mooney spun on her heel and stalked back to the exit, tossing over her shoulder, "That'll be gone soon, Richard." She didn't stop to see his utterly stunned face, but laughed nonetheless.

* * *

 **'Eeeeyyyyyy! *sweats guiltily***

 **A/N #1: First thing's first—I'M SO SORRY YOU GUYS! T^T I delayed this a week for writers block, then another for band camp, and another two until before school started, and next thing you know it's been, like, two months. So, sorry for the delay. Camp was pretty much all my waking hours were spent on, and now on top of school I have practice twice a week. And football games on Fridays. And jazz band. And I'm taking an extra course online. :/**

 **A/N #2: After apologizing, comes a** _humongous thank you!_ **I can't imagine how many people stopped following my stories because I was inactive. Basically, if you're reading this, thanks so much for sticking with me. I promise I'll try harder to update more.**

 **A/N #3: My writing block forced me to think ahead a bit, and I sketched out a bit of a plot line.** I estimate this story will be about 20-25 chapters **. No more mindless writing—now I have a mystery to sell!**

 **Once again, thanks so much you guys. Not sure when I'll update again, but I** _will_ **update—at any cost.**

 **Stat awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


	7. Chapter 7

Dick wasn't expecting a night in shining armor to come and rescue him from Fish Mooney's basement. He was just surprised it was _her_.

It wasn't as if he couldn't escape the old, dreary warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham City; he could do so without batting an eye. It was only his last conversation with Miss Mooney that kept him tethered to his prison. If she knew him, then she knew a whole deal more than he did about their current situation. More importantly, if she knew about Dick, the chances that she knew of Damian, of Tim, of Jason—hell, maybe even who Bruce would someday become—were too high to gamble. Dick's brothers, he certainly knew, could hold their own for a time, but Bruce wouldn't stand a chance.

So, aggravatingly, Dick sat on his hands, bit his tongue, and waited for God knew what.

And apparently that was the door slamming open one day, and the guards landing flat on their backs. If it weren't for the noise of steel hinges tearing, he wouldn't have even noticed the attacked as they lunged at the two goons Fish had hired. Unfortunately, Dick's current position granted him no view of the skirmish; he was bound to an old, rusting chair, positioned away from the entrance. The young man struggled against his bondages to gain a good look, but he soon realized the fight was long over. A soft groaning from the guards and the light footfalls fast approaching him were the only things breaking the silence. Once again, Dick was facing a recurring thought: friend or foe?

"You sure are a lot of hard work, Dickie."

The voice belonged to a young girl, who was busying herself undoing the (poorly tied—Dick could've broken out of them ages ago) knots securing his hands.

In hindsight, Dick should have watched his mouth. The recognition of the voice made the fact that she knew him by name irrelevant. On instinct, he breathed with relief, "Selina."

The small hands froze in their action, as did Dick's heart, if only for a moment. Then, the small hands had Dick in a headlock.

"You didn't say he knew me," Selina spat. For the first time, Dick entertained the idea that she wasn't alone.

"And Fish said you could tell the guards she gave the order to let him go," a languid voice drawled. "We all keep secrets for fun."

"Jason?" Dick choked through his semi-crushed windpipe. Selina quickly let him go, stalking out of his peripheral sight, most likely with a glare. Gagging and spluttering, Dick felt a new pair of hands picking up where Selina's work stopped. They stayed in silence long enough for Dick's hands to be free. He quickly went to work at the ropes by his ankles, muttering, "How long have I been gone?"

"Two weeks. Honestly, I kinda thought you were dead. What took you so long?"

Dick stood for the first time in what felt like ages, stretching out his limbs as the last of the rope fell away. He turned to face his brother—and was mildly taken aback by what he saw. He donned a shining, jet black leather jacket, a stark contrast to his old, tanned, and stained brown one he had come to Gotham in. A cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his crooked smile, and his hair was newly styled in accordance to what Dick guessed were the current Gotham's trends: nearly shaved on the sides, small curls piled atop his head, and the ends tinged with red dye. Dick glanced to Selina Kyle, who was observing the conversation from the sideline. Her blonde, curled hair backed his theory of it being a Gotham trend. _Thank God Bruce never got a perm._

His eyes flicked back to his brother. "Stupid question." The unspoken translation between the two: Not in front of _her_.

Jason turned his attention to Selina. The action seemed comfortable, familiar, even. "Give us a sec, would ya?"

With a huff and a final scrutinizing glance at Dick, she headed for the door. Dick made sure she was gone before he spoke.

"Two weeks, huh?" Dick stated slowly, trying to adjust his mindset. "Obviously long enough for you to get your hands on a cigarette."

Jason tried his hardest not to glare. It was a recurring battle in the Wayne household as Jason went through phases of withdrawal and relapse.

Dick decided creating trouble wasn't his best first move. He quickly changed the subject. "You met Selina?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"Working for Mooney."

"And why are you working for Mooney?"

"Jesus, Dick." Jason half-laughed, uncrossing his arms from where they lay below his chest and stuffing them into his back pockets. Dick eyed the noticeably new pistol holstered at his side. "It's times like this where your inner detective really show."

"I'm being serious," Dick snapped. "What the hell happened while I was gone?"

Jason's face fell almost immediately, all his charm and sarcasm gone. He remained silent.

Dick repeated himself in a much calmer, quieter voice, though it held undertones of panic. "Jason, what happened? What . . . what did you do?"

* * *

Jim Gordon didn't know how he had survived before Gotham's newest, brightest, and youngest detective came along. He took a long sip from his coffee before setting the mug back down on his paper-coated desk.

Timothy Drake had solved nearly a dozen serious crimes since he had joined the force a week ago. Normally, it would take months—maybe even a year—for all the paperwork to go through, for applications and interviews; but damn, that kid was smart. So, Jim made an exception.

Technically, it was sort of illegal for Tim to work with them, as he wasn't a real member of the police force. But, hey, this was Gotham. You worked with what you got. The boy held the title of "Secretary to GCPD's Head Detective" with pride. (Probably because he was doing work most full-fledged detectives didn't get to see. Perks of working with James Gordon, the cop who didn't know where to draw the line.)

"Hey, Jim." The detective turned in his chair at the rough voice of his partner, Harvey. "Your pet found something new."

Indeed, Tim was trailing behind Harvey Dent, an overflowing manila folder in his hands. He cleaned up nicely; a haircut, some new clothes, and a place to stay could go miles, Jim thought.

"Look at this," Tim stated as the thick folder fell onto Jim's lap. He opened it as Tim began to ramble about the newest staged murder in Gotham.

Jim, though thrilled the boy was so eager, cut him off with a wave of him hand. "This is great. I'll look into it, but what about the cases I assigned you?"

Tim gave a thin-lipped smile. "No news."

Jim admired Tim's persistence, his brains, and his ingenuity. As his years went on, he would without a doubt become something great. Almost any case Gordon put in front of the boy wound up cracked in a day or two.

Almost, being the key word. All except two cases, to be precise. Some new wanna-be vigilante, and, more importantly, a murder. One that happened in the very walls of the GCPD two weeks ago.

"'No news'?" Jim repeated? He picked up the day's newspaper he had been skimming moments before. "Take a look. They even have a picture of this stupid kid dressed like a bat, trying to pick fights before they start."

Tim looked at the article without much effort, something uncharacteristically strange. "Can't be older than twelve," he decided with a nod. Both his voice and his action seemed half-hearted. "Can't be too hard to find. I'll get right on it."

"You will _not_ ," Jim insisted, flipping over the newspaper to the front cover. On it, in big bold letters: _GCPD MEMBER MURDERED_. "Remember this? The case I assigned you a week ago? Wanna tell me there's no news now?"

Tim stared at the headline and the very graphic crime scene photo grimly, before turning his gaze to the floor. Jim hated berate the young man, but he couldn't understand why neither of the two important topics took any notice with him. It was almost as if Tim would rather they go unsolved, as horrible a thought that was.

Tim nodded obediently and turned on his heel, descending the small set of stairs and disappearing into the blurred rush of the bullpen. Nobody noticed the man slip out of the GCPD, and nobody noticed him walk down to the corner to the phone booth. He fished a few coins out of his pocket, and for the billionth time wished he was back in the age of instant messaging and mobile cellphones. The tone rang once, then twice.

 _"Yeah?"_

"Jason," Tim hissed, glancing at his surroundings through the glass walls of the booth. To say he was suspicious was an understatement. "You gotta disappear."

A brief laugh came from the other end. _"I appreciate the concern, but I'm so far underground that if I went any further, I'd be in China."_

Tim bit his lip, nervously tapping his foot. He was always the worried one. Jason was the one to dismiss any bad thought with a shrug and witty remark. The pause continued for a moment, where neither brother wanted to hang up; they hadn't seen each other in weeks, for obvious reasons.

"Have you heard from Damian?"

 _"Nope,"_ replied Jason slowly, popping the P. _"Newest night terror in Gotham, right? That's our lil' brother."_

"It's serious." Tim knew he didn't have to whisper; nobody could overhear his voice. If anything, the call was being traced. He knew those chances were slimmer than his paranoia believed him to think, but his rational thinking wasn't doing him much good these days. Tim absentmindedly picked at the phone's cord as he watched the light rain fall, creating lines of racing residue on the glass' exterior. "They're onto him. They're onto _you_."

 _"Aren't you dealing with our cases? As long as nobody_ really _looks into it—"_

" _Gordon's_ looking into it," Tim stressed.

There was silence.

 _"Oh."_

"Yeah," Tim replied softly. He watched as the bad weather began to pick up, the light mist becoming fat raindrops that created a soft patter against the pane.

More silence that was awkward, where neither knew what to say. They were screwed, that's for sure.

 _"I found Dick,"_ Jason shared.

It felt like a weight had been lifted off Tim's chest. At least he wasn't dead.

 _"He had some . . . some interesting news about Mooney. Some stuff I didn't know."_

"Aren't you her right hand man?"

 _"Thought so."_

Silence.

Tim opened his mouth to say something—anything—but nothing would come to mind. The two weren't the closest of brothers before any of this had happened. Now that they were all each other had left, neither really knew how to act.

 _"This is all my fault,"_ Jason confessed rather suddenly. Tim knew his estranged brother well enough to understand that this didn't come out of the blue; it had most likely been festering inside him since the incident, and was just now coming to the surface.

"No, Jason, it's—"

 _"You know damn well it's my fault,"_ Jason spat. _"I freakin' killed the Riddler before he became the Riddler. Now we're all neck-deep in shit right now, and last I heard, Bruce wasn't—"_

Tim frowned. "Bruce wasn't what?" No reply. "Jason?" Tim looked at the out-of-date machine—out of date to him, at least—and swore. "Damn it." He dug into his pocket for another quarter, and the entire contents spilled out onto the grimy floor. "Damn it!" Tim quickly dropped to the floor to try and grab one at least one of the dozen coins, but only managed to hit his head on the small structure's wall. He sank completely to the ground, back resting heavily against the corner. It was useless, now. No doubt Jason was already gone. Tim let out a long, shaking breath, and began to turn over one quarter in his fingers.

"Damn it."

* * *

 **HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! No, it's not really my birthday. It's only my account's _first year anniversary!_**

 **So, writer's block screwed me up. On top of all my sudden school work and having next to no spare time, I just** _could not_ **think of what to do with this story. Useful hint I found that typically works for me: Picture the story a few scenes ahead, where you want the plot to go. Then write from there. (Thus the leap in chronology of this chapter. Sorry if that confused anyone.) Hope this helps any fellow authors. :)**

 **Between writer's block and the fact that our first marching band competition was three weeks ago (and we kinda sucked) I didn't really have motivation to write. And we had another competition last Saturday (we did better, still kinda sucked) and that went from 10AM-11:30PM, like usual. So, I am updating before I leave for ANOTHER competition. Hope to read your guys' reviews when I get back!**

 **A humongous thank you to everyone reading this, who's stuck with me through my hiatus. If you kept faith in this story, or if you just forgot to unfollow it, thanks. I reward you with over 2K of _Sins of the Father_.**

 **I'll try to post this more often—I forgot how much I loved this story! Also, it seems since I began, some more Gotham/Batman crossovers have started. Maybe I started a trend?**

 **Anyways, thanks again, loyal readers. Also, a little desperate plea: I'm having trouble figuring out a resolution to this story (don't worry, it won't be for another five to ten chapters). If any of you have suggestions or predictions, it would be great if you shared them.**

 **Anyways, I'M BACK!**

 _ **HAPPY ANNIVERSARY**_

 **Stay awesome, my dudes!**

 **~palmtreedragons**


End file.
